In Retrospect
by K. Mendoza
Summary: A reporter attempts to track down the surviving crew from the Bebop, and to discover the final fate of iconic bounty hunter Spike Spiegel. Completed.
1. Introduction

Author's Note: Hey, it's obvious that I don't own Cowboy Bebop. That's Sunrise's bag. This is simply a fan-penned story that's a little indulgence in self expression. There's no possible way I'm profiting from this, except in practicing my writing skills. Everything copacetic with the lawsuit-guard? Groovy.  
  
Hope everyone likes this story. It's sort of the brainchild of too many Rolling Stone articles, a fascination with the Beat Generation, and one too- many rewinds of "Eddie and the Cruisers." I hope it works half as well as I meant it to.  
  
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Introduction to Beat Magazine's Dec. 2081 issue, the featured story: the Retrospect Sessions.  
  
....................  
  
In 2071, ten years ago, the bounty-hunting trade went bust. After a brief, exceptionally profitable heyday, the vigilante-for-hire business imploded like no industry had since the dot-com bust at the turn of the century. With public interest at an all-time low, an intrasystem recession attacking all but the strongest industries, and a general feeling of peace following the collapse of numerous organized crime syndicates by freelance vigilantes; there was simply little need for a bounty-hunting trade swollen to the breaking point by countless unemployed agents.  
  
As bounties grew scarcer and the rewards grew smaller, a majority of those involved in the field simply left to seek more gainful employment elsewhere. Only a small faction of holdouts remained to pursue what little prey remained, and that was sufficient to keep in check what crime the police could not handle. The meteoric decline in bounty-hunting's first major wave coincided with the demise of two of it's touchstones, the television series "Big Shot" and the preeminent hunter of his day, Spike Spiegel. "Big Shot" served as the focal point of the trade, the source by which most hunters found their latest target, and with its absence, there was too much work involved in tracking down bounties for most hunters to bother with it any longer.  
  
As for Spiegel, his death was little heralded at the time. Most of those who really knew him were already dead; and while respected, he was just another mysterious figure (one of many), who few on the hunter's circuit really understood. In any rate, it would be another five years before anyone other than a few misfits that shared a ship with him would care about the passing of Spike Spiegel, but once those five years were up, Spiegel became to the public's perception of bounty-hunting what Neal Cassady was to those who idolized the Beat Generation, or Jim Morrison to those who worshiped rock-and-roll.  
  
The spark that lit the fuse of the public's mania for all things bounty- hunting, much like Cassady's immortalization by Jack Kerouac, can be lain at the feet of one of Spiegel's closest associates. More often than not, for the four years since Spiegel's death, Faye Valentine had found herself alone, haunted by debt and memory, with little means to ease the burden of either one. Fortunately, the solution to both was to present itself very soon. Making the usual stop at a bar for the night, she told her tale of misfortune to a young man. This man, writer Hal McLauren, was entranced by Valentine's story. The two of them became friends, and with McLauren's help, Faye Valentine's memoir, Hard Luck Woman, was published in 2076.  
  
Hard Luck Woman was a best-selling smash. The public devoured it, the colorful characters, fantastic happenings and heart-rending finale becoming all the more potent for the fact that it was, in fact, a true story. While bounty-hunting itself was not resurrected in it's original form, the new enthusiasts began to adopt its trappings, turning the lifestyle into a pop trend or fashion statement...like college kids in the fifties flocking to coffeeshop poetry readings in an attempt to mimic the Beats, it soon became fashionable to slum in a half-derelict spacecraft doing odd jobs, rather than finding a decent apartment and a respectable job. Sales of tobacco products, virtually flatlining save for a small group of devotees, skyrocketed as hordes of bounty-hunter-wannabes latched onto them as yet another way to be like their idols, to the horror of the medical establishment. Retro mod suits, utilitarian paramilitary jumpsuits, samurai gear, and hotpants became the tent poles of the new "it" style.  
  
And of course, Hard Luck Woman, though virtually the Bible for hunter-chic, was not the last book (and eventually movie) to be made about the inspiration for this trend. Bounty-hunting had become so massive prior to its collapse, that there was no end of subjects to raid. Some ex-hunters tried to cash in on their stories...there was the exceptional Martian Samurai series of novels, for example...and on the other end of the spectrum, there was the wretched "Bad Muthas" film based on the life of the Shaft brothers. It became very difficult to distinguish fact from fiction...for every pinpoint-accurate biography of Koffy, there were five disasters like The Fatty Rivers Story that were so misleading or completely falsified that they set back an accurate accounting of the bounty-hunter era back years. The fascination with these space cowboys has provoked a mind-numbing degree of scholarly debate and waffling over what is and is not the truth, the sort of pop history that's as confusing and byzantine as that of the original gunslingers on Earth's Wild West.  
  
It also didn't help that the most intriguing subjects for this mania were among the most difficult to nail down the facts about. Valentine herself, though one for spinning an entertaining yarn, was not considered the most reliable source of information because of her background. The elusive Jet Black, one of the most revered figures of this mythos, has (on the rare occasions he's been located) refused to be interviewed. "Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivrusky IV"has been even more difficult to track down, with no record of her anywhere and only the word of Valentine that she actually existed. Actually, barring the actual bounty details we can verify, there's very little about the Bebop story that anyone can point to as anything other than conjecture.  
  
That is, until now. During the past year, Beat Magazine, admittedly just one of countless publications following the trail blazed by Spike Spiegel and the Bebop crew, commissioned one of our editors, Kurt Mendoza, to track down the surviving three and get their stories. Some of these accounts will be familiar...others new and surprisingly different than what we've come to believe. It's possible that some of these findings will be controversial. But ultimately, we hope that it is all the truth, at long last. 


	2. Will Success Spoil Faye Valentine?

One: Will Success Spoil Faye Valentine?  
  
It's no surprise that, out of the survivors, Faye Valentine was the easiest one to reach. For close to five years, now, she's been living the good life, debt-free and riding high on the success of her book, movie, and endorsement deals. Now living on Venus, she's agreed to meet me at home for the interview.  
  
"Home" being a penthouse suite at the top of one of Venus's towers. I'm greeted by a housekeeper, who lets me into a common room to wait for Ms. Valentine's arrival (she is, unsurprisingly given her reputation, late). Though not anywhere near as tall as most of the same sort of buildings on Mars, it's still a breathtaking view from the top, looking out on the red landscape below. The suite itself is less luxurious than I expected. Sure, there's the soft, comfortable couches and pillows I anticipated, and a small, but well-stocked bar...but despite the view, there's not much in the way of indulgences. Most of the furnishings, even the ritzy ones, are decidedly old-fashioned. Practically 20th century.  
  
There's no modern computer or entertainment center...though I do see an old- school television that looks like it's been extensively modified to pick up standard broadcasts. Underneath it is an unfamiliar black box, vaguely electronic looking. The letters on the front say BETA. And, adding to my surprise, the suite itself is very small...almost claustrophobic. Other than the large foyer (which seems empty and lifeless...the sort of place one could host a party in, but not really spend any time in otherwise), there are just three doors leading from the common room. I hear the housekeeper puttering about in one, which from the sounds of her labors, is a bathroom. Presumably the other two doors lead to a bedroom and a kitchen. Very small. Even with the view, I know that she must be able to afford more. I almost conclude that perhaps she's fallen back into debt...but that's almost impossible, if her reported earnings are accurate. She must have her own reasons for living like this.  
  
I see a copy of the book gathering dust on a shelf, and another volume that looks like a photo album lying nearby. This one is spotless, save for a general look of being well-read. I don't want to be caught looking through her things when she arrives, but curiosity gets the better of me. Inside are numerous pictures of the people on the Bebop, Spike and Jet, a few of the dog. A hazy shot or two of a scrawny kid, the photo quality less remarkable than that of the old Bigfoot film. A couple of Faye, which makes me wonder who took the picture. Clippings of their various busts. A bunch of other things. Scanning through it quickly, I see that the last page in the book holds the tiny column that was Spike's obituary. I decide it's best to leave this book alone unless she lets me see it herself.  
  
Which is a wise decision, because no sooner have I closed the book and headed back towards my seat, than the door opens and in walks Faye Valentine herself. The housekeeper fidgets out of the bathroom and introduces me.  
  
"Ma'am, this is Mr. Mendoza, from the magazine." I wonder what sort of protocol is right for this interview, and almost kiss her hand, but decide to simply bow instead. She must have noticed my indecision, because her eyes have that sort of half-amused, half-calculating look Wendy Hayashibara kept using when she played her in the movie. She sort of shakes her head and smirks.  
  
"Nice to meet you Mr. Mendoza. Have a seat. I'm just going to get changed."  
  
Physically, she looks very much the same as she did back then, despite ten years gone by. Admittedly, she's only 33 (for all intents and purposes), but you'd think you could see where the years went, what with how hard her life has been...but except for a few lines around the corners of her eyes and mouth, there's no telling. The crazy irony is that she's actually 87, legally, but could still pass for a girl fresh out of college. She's wearing a red formal gown as she goes into one of the doors...and I'm half expecting her to wear the yellow hotpants getup when she comes out, but instead it's a loose shirt and jeans. She is, however, wearing the trademark hairband, which helps cement the image of who she used to be.  
  
"Sorry about that. I just came from a casino opening...they require the most ridiculous clothes for those things. This is more my style, at least it is now." She's idly filing a nail, disinterested. The interview gig is old hat for her.  
  
"You came from a casino opening? That's a little ironic."  
  
"Tell me about it. Ten years ago, if anyone at a casino knew who I was, it'd be followed by security tossing me out at gunpoint." She smirks again. "After a strip search." Nervous cough from my corner. "Of course, now, its good business to let the most famous card cheat in the system show up at the opening, just because someone wrote a book about her. Crazy."  
  
"You still clean them out, then?" She shoots me a look, another Hayashibara one. That actress must have spent some serious time around Valentine to pick them up so dead-on.  
  
"Are you kidding me? They expect me to cheat...hell, they watch me do it with big grins on their faces. The publicity is worth it for those morons. What's the point in cheating someone if they still come out ahead? There's no fun in doing it...and there's no need anymore, either." Back to the nail. "Most of the time I just go to the lounge, wait for a song I know, and do some drinking. Casinos are a real drag nowadays." She twirls the file idly. "Look...are you going to get to the real questions anytime soon? I know you haven't come here to chit chat about celebrity ribbon- cuttings or poker table tactics."  
  
"I'm sorry, Ms. Valentine."  
  
"Please, call me Faye." This isn't imagined familiarity, she practically recoils when I call her Ms. She doesn't do 'respectable' very well.  
  
"Faye, then. Obviously, I'm here because it's been 10 years since the Red Dragon battle."  
  
"Since Spike left, you mean."  
  
"...yes. You know what an influence your story was on the subculture...because of that, I wanted to get your thoughts about your time on the Bebop...you know, in retrospect."  
  
"You and every other kid with a press pass." She takes a second to light up a cigarette. For a second, she looks over at me and faintly scowls. "Look, I've said all this stuff so many times now, are you really sure it's necessary to do it all over again?"  
  
"I'm only trying to be fair. If I'm going to do this story right, I'll need your side of it." She just sighs.  
  
"Fine...fine. Let's do it. What do you want to cover first."  
  
"Well, if I could, I'd like to know what happened when you found out about Spike. You kind of glossed over it in the book, ending it like you did. You know, with the 'bang.'"  
  
"That was kind of Hal's idea. If I was the one in charge, the book wouldn't have ended...I would have just kept adding more and more, keep venting until I finally felt used up...but then, it would never've been published. I'm not really a writer. Honestly, I didn't even know about the last words, it was something Hal got off a police statement from one of the witnesses.  
  
"I was where you'd expect I was. Back on the Bebop. Spike had only been gone for a couple of hours when reports started coming in over the comm. Neither of us said anything. I think Jet saw it coming, but I was still hoping he'd come back. You don't say you're going to find out if you're really alive, and then go and get yourself killed. But even so, he didn't come back.  
  
"It took a few weeks to...you know...deal with it all. Jet sort of went on autopilot, fixing the ship, making the rounds. He never said anything. He did fix the Redtail for me during that time. In fact, the only thing he said to me was to tell me that it was repaired. I figured he just wanted me to leave."  
  
"So, then, those stories that claim the two of you had a relationship...that was untrue?" She frowns...but if she's irritated, part of her also looks sad.  
  
"No. Not like you mean, anyway. Have you ever made out with your mother?"  
  
"Are you kidding me?"  
  
"That's what I mean. When Spike and Ed and I were all on the ship...Jet was sort of like our Dad, keeping us all fed and in line, telling us what to do even if none of us ever listened. He was so paternal that...it would have felt weird if anything happened with him. But, since it was like that, when he fixed the ship, just like he wanted me to leave, it was like I was getting thrown out by my parents." She takes a drag and looks up.  
  
"Even if we did anything, back after Spike left...and it would have been weird, trust me...I don't know if it would have been genuine. I know I was messed up, and I think Jet was really hurt too. You can't count on relationships built on shit like that." Suddenly, she smiles, but it's one of her smirking cat-grins. "Not that I was ever much of one to count on relationships, period."  
  
"Even Spike?"  
  
"Spike is...complicated." She stands up. "Do you want anything to drink?"  
  
"Rum and coke, please." Faye makes her way to the bar, and proceeds to mix us some drinks. She sits back down on the couch opposite me. The words she says almost sound rehearsed. This is obviously something she's thought a lot about.  
  
"If Jet was like my dad, then at first, Spike was a big brother. We'd fight and bicker and make each other's lives hell...but it was mutual. We also had each other's backs. Comrades, I guess.  
  
"That all changed, for me, after the Whitney thing. Whitney had been my knight in shining armor, and when he died, it took me awhile to get over it."  
  
"Even with the debts?" She smiles.  
  
"Hey, when a gentleman dies saving your life, he isn't any less of a gentleman for doing it before getting his accounts in order. Of course...once we found out the truth, any illusions I had about Whitney were understandably shattered." A quick drink and drag. "I actually managed to sue Whitney and Bacchus, once I got famous. That was a nice little revenge.  
  
"Anyway, being over Whitney, I started to look at Spike a little differently. He was always a handsome guy, but I didn't really notice past the arguing until then. The attitude was attractive too. Sure, he was a bit of a jerk, but not in a bad way. And he didn't care about anything. It's hard to describe why that was so appealing, but you get the idea. The Tongpu situation was another big moment. Even though I didn't entirely realize it myself, I think Spike knew then I had a thing for him." I decide not to question her about Tongpu, another facet of the book that no one could ever confirm or deny. Instead I keep asking about Spike.  
  
"How do you think he felt about that?"  
  
"I already told you. He didn't care about anything. That is, anything except Julia and getting even with Vicious. Look where that got him.  
  
"If you really want to know what I think about Spike, I'll tell you this much. I cared a lot about him. He was a brother and a partner. Sometimes I wish he could've been more than that. Hell, sometimes I wish I could've been more like he was. He was an idiot, a martyr, a bastard and a saint...everything anyone's ever said about him."  
  
"Sounds almost like he was a hero of yours."  
  
"Yeah, to me and every other dumb kid he came across." I grin a little as she says this.  
  
"And every dumb kid who's come across him since then." She smiles.  
  
"Well, that's true enough. Cheers." We clink the glasses together.  
  
"Do you have any contact with the other survivors?" Faye seems to flinch at that word.  
  
"Not really. I told you how it was with Jet, and I haven't heard from him for years. Ed...I get little messages from her now and then...nothing that you can use to prove she exists, if that's what you're getting at. You are going to try and track them down, right?"  
  
"If it's possible." I shrug and drain my glass. "They're both notoriously hard to find. Every once and awhile someone pops up claiming to be Ed, but you usually manage to debunk those, don't you?" It's true, she's revealed several Ed hoaxes to be shams since she got famous. Anyone who came forward as the real Ed stands to make a mountain of money if it was the truth, but as Faye always maintained, the real Edward wouldn't have any interest in that. "As for Jet, we know he exists, but it's impossible to pin him down. Once he's discovered, he always winds up disappearing, and he never answers any questions."  
  
"Sounds like Jet. Took us ages to get a straight answer about how he lost his arm. Other than platitudes about being cautious, that is. I know there's no need to look for him as a bounty hunter or a cop...whenever something ended, Jet never was one to go back to it. He might be back on Ganymede...I can't see him living here, or on Earth."  
  
"Why not Mars?" Again, she sighs.  
  
"Same reason I live here. It's where it all happened. Mars is a big place, but it's not big enough for me. After everything that went down, I couldn't see myself living there. Jet either."  
  
"Oh. So, then...are you still with Mr. McLauren? I know the two of you were living together back when the book was published...forgive me if this is too personal." She shrugs, not looking offended.  
  
"After what I've just told you, you're worried about Hal? Please. We split up a year or two ago. Mutual, pretty much. I think he was in love with the story mostly. Once he got to tell it, there wasn't much reason for him to stick around after that. Which is alright...I don't know if there was much reason for me to stay with him other than to let it all out. I was...not myself when I met Hal."  
  
"I understand. One last question, then I'll leave you alone. What do you think of the rumors that Spike is still alive somewhere?"  
  
Faye sits a long time before she answers, just looking into her glass. "All the wannabes want to think its possible. Back in my time, people were saying the same things about Kurt Cobain and Tupac Shakur. Some were even still saying it about Elvis. I know that if anyone could survive what happened, it was Spike. You know the story about the cathedral shoot-out. And I know that no one ever managed to ID his body...but there were lots of Red Dragons unaccounted for, too, that no one accepts as anything other than dead. I wish Spike was still alive. I miss him, more than I can tell you. But, I think that if he was still around, I'd have heard something. God, I know he didn't care much about anything, but I'd like to think that if he was still alive, he would have at least let us know.  
  
"I don't like to admit it, but you can only draw so many conclusions. Either he's alive and wants nothing to do with all of this...which I can actually see...he always hated hangers-on and attention...or he's dead. It's all the same, in the end."  
  
"I see. Well, Ms. Valent...I mean, Faye...thank you for your time." I stand and motion towards the door. "It's been an honor."  
  
"Mr. Mendoza?" I turn back towards her and nod. "Are you serious about trying to find Jet and Ed?"  
  
"Completely serious. It would mean so much to me to actually speak with them." I smile sheepishly. "I was pretty into Hard Luck Woman myself, when it first came out. They're my heroes as much as the next dumb kid's.  
  
"But I want to know the whole truth about the story, it's imperative I know how it all turned out...and if they can help, I don't have much choice. I have to keep on looking."  
  
If Faye takes offense at the implication that her story is not enough of the complete truth, then she doesn't show it. She simply stares out the window for a minute. "I can help you find Ed. Her last message indicated she was in the old American Southwest a month or two back. You might be able to find her with that."  
  
"I thought you said there was nothing you could do to prove she exists..." She flashes the confident half-smile once again."  
  
"Hey, I made a good living off lying to people for years...old habits die hard. Besides, you reporters are usually so humorless. You're not much of an exception either, kid. But you seem okay. So go on, good luck. And if you find Ed, I doubt there's anyone else in the system who's better qualified to help you find Jet."  
  
"Thank you. I'll let you know if I dig up anything. Thank you so much."  
  
"No problem." We shake hands and I open the door to leave. As she closes it, she says one more thing. "Hey, if you find Jet...tell him..." She lets the words trail off.  
  
"Tell him what?"  
  
"That, whatever it was I did, I'm sorry. It's important that he knows."  
  
"I'll do my best, Faye. Goodbye."  
  
The ride back to the hotel is long and dreary. Whatever else Venus may be, it's certainly no Mars...which is the whole point, obviously. Just before turning in for bed, I book passage on a shuttle bound for Earth. I've got some serious searching to do. 


	3. Letters From the Earth

Part Two: Letters From the Earth  
  
I'm sure when I look back on this in the future, nothing in my experience will so remind me of Hell as the two months I spent on Earth.  
  
Things might be different on other parts of the planet, true. There might be places where the air is cool and moist, where the mercury stays somewhere below 95 degrees. Maybe even places where space junk and bits of the moon don't rain down like intergalactic cruise missiles. But if there are, I don't spend any time in those parts of Earth while I'm there. Instead I'm combing the Southwest, which is blazingly hot and a visual dumpster. I've read that there used to be impressive natural monuments throughout this area, but all there is now is craters and sand. It is miserable, and so am I.  
  
To get around, and to prevent any accidental damage by stray meteors, the magazine forces me to drive around in an ancient 1990's model tank, reassuring me that it is the only thing that could possibly withstand impact by a rock from space. I don't particularly believe that's true...some of the moon chunks are very large from what I've heard, and I don't think the tank is enough to keep me alive if a big one hits. I'm lucky, in as far as I only have a few close calls, but no actual impacts...though the effect these have on my mood is not beneficial. The mission is beginning to feel suicidal. Another added bonus of using the tank is the way the people I meet react to it. You'd be surprised how few people want to stick around long enough to see if you're carrying any live armament in such a vehicle. I have almost no luck getting leads in finding "Ed." Only Faye's insistence that she is there, and that this mysterious hacker is my only hope of tracking down Jet Black, keeps me keeping on.  
  
I note, with a degree of irony, that this is part of the area where the original cowboys used to roam, back in the late 1800s. I don't feel particularly adventuresome anymore, and I feel even less inspired. In the month and a half I've been combing these deserts, asking anyone foolish enough to both be above ground and willing to talk to a stranger in a tank, I turn up absolutely nothing. And of course, there's no "Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivrusky IV" in any directory I can get my hands on. It's turning into a complete wash, and in a fit of despair, I'm halfway to calling the editor-in-chief to abort the feature, when I notice a glint in the horizon.  
  
There's something out there. I open the hatch and stand out there screaming and waving my arms, but there's no response. I can't tell for sure if it's another tank or just a truck, or something completely unique; but I can see for certain that at the rate it's moving, it'll be long gone if I don't do something fast.  
  
I put the tank in gear. By dint of it's extremely advanced age, it's incapable of anything other than a leisurely pace. The whatever it is keeps getting smaller on the edge of the sky. Gears jam and grind as I plead with the prehistoric contraption to just go faster...but the other vehicle slips out of sight.  
  
This is the final straw. Half-mad with rage, I bring the huge central gun to bear. The tank was indeed armed...the magazine was worried about raiders, but I never have any occasion to use it except out of sheer frustration. Aiming for a spot about a quarter-mile away, I let the three shells that came with the tank go. The fact that something in the goddamn machine works like it's supposed to is heartening, and the explosions are cathartic, needless to say.  
  
On the other hand, once the boom of the shells fades...I come to realize that I'm now half-stranded in a rusted pile of junk, unarmed, and charged with a task that I seem destined not to complete. This is not the way I imagined it would be back at the Martian Arts Academy. I start dialing the number for the magazine again...when all of a sudden, the strange vehicle reappears on the horizon, heading straight for me.  
  
"Oh, shit. Raiders. This is it." I now know that there is no hope in getting out of here alive. There's no point in waiting in that miserable pile any longer, either. They will get me eventually. I open the hatch up again, and climb out. Naked to the sky, I half expect a satellite to crash down and hit me before the raiders come. It's been that bad of a month.  
  
The vehicle is a huge, rusty brown machine the likes of which I've not seen before. It really isn't any sort of truck or tank, though it is about the size of the old monster I've been living in. I guess the best way to describe it is as some sort of uber dune buggy. I know I'm going to die, and have resigned myself to it, when once again, the buggy surprises me.  
  
It is making a beeline for me, but, when there was only a few hundred feet between us...it swerves abruptly, and heads for the craters of my tantrum. I stare, slack-jawed...now cheated of death by misadventure (literally), and not even feeling good about that. A second later, I realize they must not be raiders, and start running after the buggy, waving my arms and screaming at the top of my lungs. "Hey! Wait up! Goddamn it, you bastards, stop!!!" If they notice me, there's nothing to indicate it to me. The buggy stops at the craters...a man jumps out. I notice that he has purple hair, but can't see anything else from this range. He doesn't seem to notice me, either. Purple-hair shouts something to the driver, and climbs back in, apparently about to take off again.  
  
About to be abandoned once more, and not even certain why I pinned so much emotional significance on contact with the buggy, I start to wish I'd taken the tank, even if it would have taken just as long to start it up again. I'm considering this train of thought, still running, while the buggy starts to peel out again...when I'm suddenly very glad I didn't stay in the tank.  
  
The Greeks had it pretty good. When they were afraid that the gods had taken a dislike to them, they at least had the warning that the skies would grow dark and cloudy before vengeful thunderbolts started falling. A Greek could find cover before divine wrath brought him low. Not me. By now, I'm convinced that God hates me, and the final proof of this belief comes when, screaming right out of the clear blue sky, a piece of the moon the size of a Great Dane crashes right on top of my tank. There is a huge explosion...and whether from complete apoplectic rage, fear, or stress and overheating, I collapse on the sand.  
  
...  
  
When I come to, it's to the smell of some sort of chemical, the feeling of intense heat, and a bunch of orangey-red stuff in my field of view. I imagine that the training stage is over, and at long last, I've finally come to Hell proper.  
  
"Aaaargh...damn...tank...meteors...now...stupid story...frickin' dune buggy." I'm not speaking too steady and my vision is blurred, too. The pile of red spins about, revealing itself to be hair on someone's head. I can't see too clear, but I don't think this is a guy. When a voice yells out to someone behind me, I know for certain it's a woman.  
  
"McDougal! He's finally up!" There's a clattering of something being dropped. A dog barks.  
  
"Francoise, for the last time, that joke isn't funny anymore. You know my name! You're as bad as your father." I see a blurry, impossibly large smile.  
  
"You say that like it's so bad, Mc-Person." I don't notice the way she breaks it up when she says it. "Now get over here...this guy needs help." I slowly try to right myself, a hand on my throbbing head, as I see a big swatch of purple walk by. Must be the guy I saw in the buggy. No two people could have that hair, no matter how big this godforsaken planet is. As my eyes slowly come back into focus, I look around and see the buggy, confirming my suspicions. There's also a big hole in the ground, with a smoldering heap of metal that might have been the tank in an earlier life at the bottom of it; and a big tent that's closed off from my sight.  
  
"Ugh." I turn back to my rescuers. "Who are you people?" I ask, while I take their appearances in. Purple-Hair...McDougal, McPersen...whoever the hell this guy is, is a thin guy dressed in khaki, with a pair of yellow Ray- Bans over his eyes. The scholarly look is offset by numerous piercings, the crazy hair, and a goatee. It's hard to say for sure, but he looks about Faye's age. Early-middle thirties. Looks like a hipster academic, or one of those professors you get at the Academy that teach the really wild courses and always wind up leaving before they get tenure, to go study semi-indigenous Native American cultures on Titan, or form a sitar/trip-hop band. One of those guys.  
  
The girl is definitely younger than McPersen. Anywhere from 10-15 years younger. She's wearing goggles and a tanktop, spandex pants and no shoes. Another hippy, then. Her hair is wild, halfway to becoming dreadlocks from the look of it. At her feet is an old dog with a grey muzzle. She's very skinny, humming a strange little tune while punching in something on a handheld gizmo. "I am Francoise Appledelhi." She doesn't even turn to look at me. "This is McIntyre," she says, with a nonchalant wave at McPersen..which I realize must have been a nickname, "and this is Ein," she finishes, stooping to pick up the old dog. Rubbing it behind the ears, she cuddles the pooch, who yips happily. Something clicks in my mind, looking at this Ein. "We are map makers!" she almost shouts.  
  
"Yeah," continues McIntyre. "Francoise's father started this gig about 13 years ago. We've been carrying on for him." He's crouched on the ground, fiddling with some wires. "Francoise, the satellite feed is all set up. It'll take a few hours to get this area rendered...do you want to make camp, or keep on until it gets dark?" Francoise squints over at me. I myself haven't taken my eyes off the dog.  
  
"I think we'd better make sure this guy's OK before we do anything else. Better make the camp!" McIntyre just shrugs and heads into the tent. Francoise squats down and looks in my eyes. Very close. This girl has no concept of 'personal space.' "So, what's your name, mister?"  
  
"Mendoza. Kurt Mendoza. I'm a reporter for Beat magazine. I was out here working on a story...but everything kinda just went to pot." Francoise nods thoughtfully as she reaches into her knapsack, pulling out a canteen which she hands to me.  
  
"Yes. I know how that is. Ein and I had an experience with some mushrooms once..."  
  
"No, no...not like that! I just mean, things kind of went haywire. You and McIntyre were the first people I've seen for weeks. When you guys were fixing to leave...I kind of freaked out."  
  
"So that's why you made the explosions! Mc-Person thought you were maybe just crazy." All of a sudden, she slugs me in the shoulder. "Hey, don't go shooting around like that again! We're on important business with our cartographications, and the meteors make it hard enough to keep things accurate without crazy persons putting new holes of their own in!"  
  
"Uh, sorry about that." I rub my shoulder. For such a twig of a girl, she hits really hard. "I don't think it'll happen again...what with the tank being trashed and all. Speaking of which...do you guys think you could give me a lift to the nearest settlement? I'm going to have to call my publisher...the comm was in the tank."  
  
"We can most likely come to some sort of arrangement." She's smiling again. Whatever ire I'd incurred with my outburst had apparently been forgotten. "So, Mr. Kurt the Reporter...what is it you're working on out here?" I take one last drink, and hand the canteen back to her.  
  
"Well, you might be able to help me there, too. I'm looking for someone with a dog just like yours...named Ein too. Not really a common name...so I thought maybe it was the same dog. How long ago did you pick it up...and from who, if you don't mind me asking?" I turn on my recorder...blessedly, it had been in my pocket when the tank blew.  
  
"First of all, Mr. Reporter, Ein is a 'he,' not an 'it.' Second of all...I've had Ein for eleven years or more...I never got him from anyone. Sorry!" That huge grin again...what sort of person can have such big teeth? Another dead end. I click off my recorder, maybe a little too theatrically.  
  
"Aww...what's wrong? Who are you looking for, anyway?" Back again, right in my face. Who raised this girl, wolves?  
  
"Her name was Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivrusky IV. I took someone at her word that Ed would be out here somewhere...but looks like she was wrong about that, too. Jesus! How many dogs named Ein can there be?" I have turned around in my frustration, kicking at some rocks, but I have to look back again when I hear the sound of crazy laughter from behind my back.  
  
Francoise is on the ground, rolling with mirth and clutching her stomach to try (unsuccessfully) to hold it in. McIntyre must have heard the commotion, because he came out and asked in unison with me, "What's so funny?"  
  
"Ha ha ha! Snff...sorry...sorry. I didn't know you didn't know. You see...Francoise IS Edward!"  
  
McIntyre shrugged. "Oh. That again. Yeah, I knew. I'll be back in the tent, Francoise." And with that, he exits once more, leaving me alone with the mythical Radical Edward.  
  
...  
  
It takes a little while after that to iron out the confusion, but soon enough, we are in the tent, sitting cross-legged around a lantern while McIntyre cooks something in an adjoining 'room'.  
  
"Okay...so let me get this straight. You've been wandering for how long?"  
  
"About ten years." She takes a big bite out of some fruit. With her mouth full, she continues. "I mean, once I finally caught up with Papa, there was maybe another nine between then and now. I don't really think of it as wandering...I was home wherever I went."  
  
"Faye wrote once that you were always like that." She perks at the mention.  
  
"You know Faye-Faye?" Her eyes go wide with surprise.  
  
"Not really. I read her book, then I interviewed her once. She told me where I might find you, though." So...you've kept quiet...real quiet all these years...are you positive you're okay with me interviewing you?" Ed just shrugs. I get the impression that between her and McIntyre, the map- making business is a very indifferent gig.  
  
"It's all the same to Francoise. I've been following up on Faye and Jet...I know what's going on. I don't really need money or anything, so it's nothing if I talk or not. But, hey, you've come all the way out here, and your tank got all blowed up...you could use a break. Go ahead, I minds it not!" She laughs. The weird grammar is singsongy...it doesn't seem serious at all. I am starting to see where Faye had come from with her bizarre stories of Ed in the memoir. If she was like this now...I can only imagine what she was like before maturity set in. If this is maturity, that is.  
  
"Well, let's get back into it." The recorder is back on. "It's been established that you left the Bebop with your father..." She shook her head.  
  
"No, following after him. It took a year to catch up. After that, I made sure Ein was always in the buggy, and that I was right with Papa in case he forgot about me again." She says it nonchalantly. I can't believe the fact that her father would forget her doesn't bother her, and I tell her so. She still doesn't seem upset.  
  
"Not anymore. There was a time, back when I was about 16, that I resented being left behind all those years. That and some other stuff. But teenagers have those sort of issues, y'dig? He was absent-minded...wrapped up in his dream. Even when I was little, after the Bebop, I kind of knew he needed my help, otherwise who knows what he'd forget next?" McIntyre comes in with a tray of food, which he places in front of the girl and myself.  
  
"One time old Appledelhi forgot me in the middle of the Malaysian rainforest. Took Francoise and him three weeks to find me."  
  
"Jesus! Were you alright?"  
  
"Eh. It was an adventure. I told him beforehand that there was no real need to map the craters in the jungle, but the old guy couldn't be diverted. You know, he never did remember what my real name was." He tousles Ed's hair. "She picked up that bad habit from him."  
  
"Scram, McGillicutty." She sticks her tongue out at him as he leaves again, then laughs and returns to the conversation, putting old Ein on her lap.  
  
"So...what's the story with you and McIntyre? Are you two together?" The age gap isn't too extreme, though it is somewhat weird. I have trouble picturing it, in all honesty. Ed just bursts out laughing again, rolling on the poor dog, who yips pitifully.  
  
"No, no, no. We're just friends. My Papa was sort of a absentee father- figure to both of us, so even though he could be a complete, total, utter, inexorable, magnamistochistical pain in the gluteus maximus...we both stuck around after he died. To try and finish what he started."  
  
"How did Appledelhi die, may I ask?"  
  
"It was about three years ago. Heart attack." She is practically unconcerned, scratching Ein's belly. "You can't eat as many eggs as Papa did and not expect to have problems with cholesterol."  
  
"Oh. Okay then...how's Ein been doing? He's getting up there in years, even if you assume he was only one or two when Spike found him."  
  
"Ein is good. He isn't as fast as he used to be, and he can't hack like he used to..." What the hell does that mean? "..but he's okay. Just getting older. Like all of us. I don't know if the constant moving about is good for him anymore, though." She looks a little worried, almost maternal. "Why do you ask, anyway?"  
  
"Hey, you'd be surprised what kind of things fascinate the neo-hunter types. Ein stuff is practically a cottage industry. A photo of him alone would probably net some huge woolongs on an auction. People are weird." I crack my knuckles. "So, can we talk about the Bebop for a bit?"  
  
"Sure thing, Mr. Reporter!"  
  
"Well, I figure if you've been following up on Faye and Jet, you must know about Spike..."  
  
Her eyes get really big all of a sudden. "No, what about Spike?" Oh, Christ, don't make me be the one who has to break the news to her. That was not what I had in mind when I signed on for this beat...  
  
But, just as quick, she's back to normal. "Just kidding. I heard. You couldn't go online for awhile without hitting a banner for that book on every other page."  
  
"You know, you are a very cruel young lady..."  
  
"You're telling me!" hollers McIntyre from the other room. Strains of guitar cords are being picked here and there from his direction, but I can't tell if it's him playing or a recording. The man is such a hippy.  
  
"Anyway...about Spike..." I snap back to attention.  
  
"Yes! Sorry...what was your reaction to his death?" She looks annoyed.  
  
"Well, Mr. Reporter, naturally, Me and McPerson threw a party with Papa. We had Ein come out of the cake for the celebration. What do you think happened?" She sighs. "I was sad, obviously. I left the Bebop to look after Papa, but that didn't mean I cared for Spike and the rest any less than before. It felt like a good time to go. You know how you can see a storm coming ahead of time? It was like that, towards the end on the Bebop. The way things worked out with the Vincent incident...Spike wasn't really the same afterward. Faye had left...I could tell things were going to end...and I didn't want to be left behind by them as well."  
  
"So you left them instead? That sounds a lot like Faye, from what I've heard..."  
  
"Hey, what are you going to do? She was pretty much my only female role model my entire life, unless you count the nuns. It's inevitable there'll be some similarities, y'know." She shrugs. Again. "It wasn't malicious, me leaving the crew. I'm just saying, even though I probably couldn't have explained it then, I think it's why I went away. That and the thing with my papa." She runs a hand through her almost-dreads. "Really, when I found out about Spike, it wasn't until after Faye's book went out. By then, I was in the bad teenage funky years, and at that point, it was another thing to hold against the old man. You know, 'if I had stayed back there, I would have been happy, I could have changed the way things went down'...that kind of stupid teenage bullshit. It's just sad, now."  
  
"Well, there is one thing more about Spike I was wondering. Ever since the book came out, and people started getting into it, there've been rumors. With the absence of a body, some people like to believe that Spike Spiegel is still alive. Do you have any insight to add to that debate?"  
  
Now, she is just looking sad. Deeply, genuinely so. "None whatsoever."  
  
"Because, Faye seems to think he would have tried to reach one of you...are you certain?"  
  
"Look, Mr. Reporter..." she snaps, and I jump back, startled. "I know the map thing keeps me busy...but there still isn't anyone who's as connected as I am. If Spike was still out there...I'd know it. He'd have to have a backup identity if he wasn't going as Spike Spiegel anymore, and no one who fits the description...and isn't some wannabe," she's still glaring at me, "has turned up that fits. There'd be financial records, there'd be obvious signs of tampering with records...there'd be some way to know for sure. Man, I wish he was still alive...but there's not a lot of evidence, you know? Just a Spike-shaped hole where a body's supposed to be. I don't think that's enough for me to get my hopes up over anymore. I did enough of that back when I was still mad at Papa. No, he's gone, and I just miss him. I miss all of them."  
  
"Well, why don't you contact Jet or Faye? They're not dead, either. I mean, I know you send them messages...but they gotta miss you, too. That wasn't false affection in Faye's book, and I bet Jet probably spent more time with you than anyone. Why don't you get a hold of them? Especially when the alternative is so..." I reach for the right word, something to describe this insane mapmaking project. "...so futile?"  
  
"It's just the way things are. I promised Papa. I'll keep my word."  
  
"Why?" My objectivity is beginning to unravel. "He never kept any promises for you!"  
  
"No, but then, he never promised me anything." She stands up. "I think we're finishing up here."  
  
"Alright...whatever." I exhale deeply. The logic Francoise works with is so foreign to me that I can't begin to try and understand...and if what's been written is true, there's no indication it's ever been otherwise. It's just frustrating. It seems like Faye and Francoise would be happier if they could all be together again...and God only knows how Jet's turned out. It's strange how the story can switch from pure ridiculousness to this kind of melodrama...  
  
I'll stop now...before my credibility as an unbiased journalist gets ripped to shreds. Not that it's ever been easy to keep from connecting with these people for anyone covering their stories. I get up to leave. "Look, can I use your comm, so I can call my bosses and get out of here?"  
  
"Sure. McIntyre can help you with that." She's just holding Ein really tight. I can't be too sure, it's so dim, but it looks like she's about to cry.  
  
I open the flap and go in the next room. McIntyre looks like he's heard it all. For once, he doesn't look detached or wry, though I'm not sure he knows exactly how he feels, either. His face is very hard to read. He reaches behind the guitar case (it had been him playing after all), and pulls out a little comm unit.  
  
"Here. Don't worry about Francoise...I'll make sure she's alright." I dial the number and make the call, explaining the circumstances of the tank mishap, but counterbalancing it with the fact that I did manage to find Radical Edward, sort of. My editor arranges to have a lander sent to my coordinates. It'll only be a few minutes before I'm finally off this rock! I put the comm by McIntyre's case, and then exit the tent. I think I'll spend the last few minutes I have left on Earth outside.  
  
A few long minutes go by before I spot the ship sent to pick me up. Just as the lander is descending, Francoise comes back outside. She doesn't look me in the eyes, and keeps a few steps away this time.  
  
"I'm sorry about that, back there." This time, I'm the one who's shrugging my indifference.  
  
"Don't be. It was my fault. Shouldn't have argued with you like that." The winds from the ship's engines are beginning to pick up the sand around us...it's not a comfortable place to be.  
  
"Well, whatever you say, Mr. Reporter. Are you still going after Jet?"  
  
"He's the last piece of the puzzle. Gotta do it somehow." I'm almost shouting now, over the sound of the ship. Neither of us have made eye contact.  
  
"Here. This will help you find him." She gives me a slip of paper. I see some writing...looks like an address on Ganymede. "I told you I was following up on him!" The roar is deafening. "One last thing!" She goes back inside the tent, and just as quickly, comes out carrying a box. "Give him this, when you see him!"  
  
I have only a moment to thank her for her help before I have to get on the plane. If I notice anything about the box, I ignore it in my hurry to escape from planet Earth. Collapsing in my seat, watching her wave as the ship takes off...I finally inspect the parcel I've been charged with.  
  
The box is whining. "What the hell?" I open it up, there is nothing sealing it from me doing so, so I assume she wants me to look inside.  
  
The flaps open, and there's a grey muzzle looking out at me. Ein. Just like that, I've got a traveling companion. I'm a guy who's never been able to keep a houseplant alive, and Francoise wants me to take care of an old dog until I see Jet? Jesus Christ. Rather than heading back to the press office on Mars, I ask the captain whether it's possible for us to head straight for Ganymede instead.  
  
What do you feed a Welsh Corgi, anyway? 


	4. Defense and Desire

Part Three: Defense and Desire  
  
After my time on Earth, even the weather that greets me on Ganymede cannot faze me. I've come to Ginsburrough, a little town on the northeast sector of the planet. This time of year, the sector is constantly shrouded in storms, with only the briefest breaks in the clouds. To call this "rain" is to understatement. It's more in line with a torrential downpour. But it's nice and cool, and it's not Earth, so I scarcely notice the menacing clouds gathering when I walk up the dock towards my destination.  
  
I carry a pet carrier in my left hand. Inside, my new tagalong Ein is barking like mad. Maybe the weather's bothering him, or perhaps he's just letting me know what he thinks of me. Though we've only been together for a couple of days, Ein and I have not gotten along very well. As mentioned, I'm not very good at taking care of anything other than myself...and Ein hasn't shown much interest in eating anything other than the good leather hat I left out on the shuttle ride over. I hope to find Jet soon...even if he doesn't agree to an interview, it'll be worth it just to give the dog to someone remotely qualified to care for him. In my other hand, I hold the strip of paper Ed gave me before I left. It says:  
  
Charlie P. Gillespie  
  
The Running Rock Cantina  
  
777 Pasternak  
  
Ginsburrough, Ganymede  
  
I did a bit of research before heading out to Ginsburrough. Seems the Running Rock has been in business for a couple of years now...doing a tolerable job of catering to Ginsburrough's nightlife. I've been unable to dig up anything on Gillespie, however. I have my suspicions, though.  
  
Ginsburrough is not a big place. There's only about 11,000 people on the island and the network of interconnected docks that has grown off of it. A large part of the town itself actually floats on these docks, which serve as the primary streets of this place. The atmosphere is pretty laid back. There's a few scraggly thug-types hanging about, and they eye the container I'm carrying as if it could be their next big payday. Seeing nothing more than an old mutt, they leave us alone. Ironically, even as old as he is, the 'mutt' is probably worth more than I make in a year at the magazine. I can't say in any honesty why that is, though. I've never found out exactly what makes a data dog so valuable. If Ein was half as intelligent, loyal and good natured as he was portrayed in the book, maybe I'd understand the sheer emotional value of this pet...but he still hasn't stopped growling at me, and I still miss my hat.  
  
There's no big business in Ginsburrough, and very little to do, it seems, other than go to the few bars out on the west end, which is where I'm slowly making my way towards. The market seems centered around the fishing industry, and little else. I've seen half a dozen teenagers just hanging around, looking for something to do. I imagine Ginsburrough loses a lot of it's youth to the larger cities on the other side of the planet. I notice, with no little amusement, how many of these bored kids are dressed in the hunter-chic styles. Of particular notice is a scrawny boy with wildly puffed hair, dyed a sort of off-green shade. He's wearing an exact duplicate of the signature suit Spike wore, except that it's red, not blue. He's also trying, and failing, to look cool by sucking down a Marlboro Red. A paroxysm of coughing suddenly breaks out from his doorway. I just shake my head and chuckle as I walk on. Spike Spiegel. Often imitated, but never duplicated.  
  
Just as the rain that's been threatening begins to fall, I cross onto another causeway, this one marked as Pasternak. Sure enough, there's the Running Rock a little ways down the block. It's a nondescript little joint, a little one-story blues bar with a big mural of Charlie Parker off to the left side of the entrance. I can't see too clearly inside, but it doesn't look all that busy...which seems to be par for the course in this burg. It's really starting to pour when I step through the doorway and make my entrance.  
  
Inside, there's about a dozen small tables, an empty dance floor and a couple of pool tables, as well as a medium-sized bar. There's maybe 10 people in here, tops. A trio of men so old they look like mummies sit huddled at a corner table, one of them muttering some indistinct nonsense about building a gate while the other two just nod along with him. A tall woman, maybe on the late edge of middle age, is at the bar nursing a drink and petting a cat, which eases any fear about this place not allowing animals. There's also a small group of those punk kids, complaining loudly about how there's nothing to do in this town, while trying to sneak some alcohol from a barely-hidden flask into their sodas. Lording over it all is a man behind the bar. This has to be 'Gillespie.'  
  
I put my coat on a rack by the door and head for the bar. Ein, thank God, has finally shut up. I look down long enough to confirm that he hasn't died on me, then keep on walking until I reach a stool. As I sit down, the barman moves over to where I'm at.  
  
"Hey there, stranger. Welcome to the Running Rock." The man is massive, easily a full head taller than I am. He seems even larger when one sees his long grey mane (half obscured by a battered hat, which looks to be in worse shape than the one of mine that Ein chewed) and thick beard like some sort of hermit. One eye is hidden by a patch, which in turn is covered by dark shades, even at this late hour of the day. He looks like a pirate, or the leader of a biker gang...but his actual tone is very pleasant, almost easy going. "Can I get you anything?"  
  
I give the standard answer. "Rum and coke sounds pretty good." The barkeep smirks and half-nods at the kids trying to smuggle their drinks in.  
  
"To you and them both, friend." We chuckle at the expense of the kids, who suddenly shut up and abruptly hide their drinks from sight as the big guy gestures at them. He quickly mixes the drink and passes it to me. "There you go."  
  
"Thanks. Are you going to have to do something about those kids?" He waves a hand, unperturbed.  
  
"Ah, let 'em have their fun. Life's too short to get stressed out about that kind of garbage. So, tell me something, buddy...what brings you to Ginsburrough?" He looks at me from over the rim of the shades, with the one uncovered eye. "I'd have seen you around town if you've been here before." I drain the rest of my drink before answering.  
  
"I'm here to deliver something to a guy who lives around here." I hand the glass back, with the gesture to fill it up again, before sending out my first tentative advance. "Some cat named Charlie Gillespie...heard of him?"  
  
The barkeep looks off to one side, hands on the surface on the bar, waiting a moment before answering. Before he can say anything, the three geezers suddenly break out into a horrible-sounding burst of crazy-old-man laughter, while one of them wheezes something about a girl in Tijuana. My man the pirate gives them a long, questioning look before he answers me.  
  
"Well, pal...it's a common enough name," he deadpans. "But if you're looking for the Gillespie that runs this bar, you're lookin' at him." He sticks out his left hand. I notice then that he's wearing gloves and a long-sleeved shirt that covers any...distinguishing marks on his arms. "Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr..."  
  
I shake his hand with a grin. "Hey, call me Kurt."  
  
There's a stern set to his jaw that makes me think he knows where this is all heading. "Alright then, Kurt...what's this delivery you got for me?" He's reaching under the bar for something...a gun, maybe? Before he can get too impatient, I quickly stoop down and pick up the pet carrier.  
  
"I think, Mr. Gillespie...that you're the man best suited to take care of this little bugger here..." I put it on the bar. Naturally, Ein starts the yipping again. This sets off the cat with the older lady, who apologizes to 'Gillespie' on her way out, as they exit the bar, heading off to some place down the road. The barkeep scarcely notices. He takes off the shades, eye wide with amazement.  
  
"This can't be who I think it is..." He opens up the cage. Ein scampers out, barking in a way that sounds, to my untrained ear, happy. "Ein!" He scoops the dog up below it's stubby little legs and holds him high above his head, laughing like the prodigal son has just come home.  
  
I don't say anything, myself. I figure that there's going to be a whole hell of a lot of questions to answer once his giddiness subsides. I look at the kids. They're rolling their eyes. "What's the matter, haven't you ever seen a family reunion?" The kids resume their slouching and sucking of spiked coke. The old guys are oblivious, still wrapped up in their snail's-pace conversation.  
  
The barman puts Ein down on the bar, and looks back at me. "Stranger, I think you and I are going to have to..." but his words are cut short when the cat lady comes back in.  
  
"Jet! There's a whole bunch of folks coming this way! I think your cover's been blown!" She takes off back the way she came, maybe to try and slow them down. Jet's face is contorted, furious, and he slams a fist down on the bar. The left hand strikes like thunder, Ein begins to whine, and every face in the bar turns to see what the commotion is.  
  
"God damn it!" He shoots me a venomous look before peeling off the eyepatch, revealing an undamaged eye, but a vicious scar and a crudely applied mending bar as well. I don't know whether to try and give an excuse or just run for my life, but my decision is taken out of my hands when the crowd the cat lady warned him about barges into the cantina.  
  
"God damn it..." From me, this time. I recognize every one of the bastards that file in through the doors. Press passes flashing, a slew of reporters from every two-bit newsmag from the Nova Express on up to the Daily Globes storm in, shouting at Jet. He holds Ein the way a wide receiver might cradle a football, staring aghast at the sea of journalism before him. I must have been followed, I realize, and I curse the luck I'd dare to think *might've* turned for the better.  
  
The news hawks are screaming at him. "Mr. Black! Over here! What have you been doing all these years?" His face is a dumbstruck blank slate.  
  
"Did you ever have an affair with Faye Valentine?" Now a mask of confusion.  
  
"What kind of food does Ein prefer?" Confusion squared.  
  
"Who was the better shot, you or Andy Musashi?" Now he's merely looking contemptuous. I am going to hell for this, I'm sure of it.  
  
"Can you give us exclusive rights to publish your cookbook?" He almost looks interested before setting his face back into "scowl" mode.  
  
"Is it true that you've fathered six children in the time you've been in hiding?" He stares at Ein and rolls his eyes.  
  
"Were you and Mr. Spiegel ever intimate?" Jet covers his face with his hand, absolutely disgusted by all these questions. Very slowly, he bends down behind the bar and puts Ein down. From my vantage point in the corner, huddled in a fetal position, I can barely hear the scampering sound of four little paws dashing somewhere out of the way. When Jet comes back up, he's got a gun in his hand. The room goes quiet, and he clears his throat.  
  
"Okay, then. You punks better listen up, because I'm not going to repeat myself. I've made it abundantly clear for the past five years that I have no interest in selling my story to you buzzards! Now, the next one of you that pipes up," he glares ferociously out at the mob of correspondents, "about anything to do with the Bebop, my whereabouts for the last half- decade, or my sex life, is going to get shot! I'm not threatening you bottom-feeders, I'm swearing an oath! Now, get the hell out of my bar!!!" His roar is fearsome, and anyone with some sense would get out of there as fast as humanly possible. I would have already, but my exit path is full of newsmen. Unfortunately, it's a testimony to the inherent lunacy of my profession, that some idiot speaks up.  
  
"But, Mr. Black...what about your opinions on whether or not Spike..." This is Garibaldi Panza, a features hotshot from the Weekly Ganymedian. He never finishes his sentence. With frightening accuracy, Jet levels the pistol and fires a single shot at Panza. "Oh, Jesus Christ! He's shot me in the foot! This crazy bastard shot me in the foot! Oh, God, it hurts!"  
  
Jet raises the pistol, and focuses back on the rest of the crowd. "I don't think anything else needs to be said. Now get out!!!" To emphasize his point, he blasts off the rest of the clip into the ceiling. The entire bunch bolts like a herd of spooked cattle, and I try to make my way to the front of the line, before Jet remembers...  
  
A superhumanly strong hand grabs my collar before I can take off. "Not so fast, kid." Like lightening, I'm lifted bodily into the air, and slammed into the wall. Jet looks right in my eyes, dangerously close. His prosthetic arm is still clamped, vise-like, on my collar, pinning me there. Flowery descriptions fail me at the moment...it's sufficient to say that the man is pissed. "I was going to say, before we were interrupted, that we should have a conversation. Well, buddy, I think that'd suit me just fine right now." He drags me by my shirt, heading back behind the bar. I catch a glimpse of the kids, grinning perversely. This is probably the most exciting thing they've ever seen here in Ginsburrough. They'll be talking about this forever, but the fact that urban legend will immortalize me doesn't console me much, seemingly at the hour of my death.  
  
Jet hauls me over to a heavy door, opens it up, and tosses me inside with one hand. I crash against some boxes and lie on the floor. I think this is a stockroom...but all that I care is it's too dark to find my way out when he slams the door shut on me. Outside, I hear him bellow at his patrons. "Alright, the bar is closed indefinitely! Everyone out!" There's some sounds of argument. "Look, old-timer, I don't care how many years ago you built the gate, I'm closing this place down now!" There's the sound of several people walking at various speeds across the wood floor, followed by a doorslam so loud I have to wonder if the front entrance has been damaged. Then, just one set of footsteps, stomping loudly, back towards where I've been flung.  
  
I'm trying to remember the Act of Contrition when the door is flung wide open again. Light floods what is indeed a stockroom. Jet stomps in, holding a gun, but not with his finger on the trigger. He sits down on a box facing me.  
  
"Alright, Kurt. Where'd you get the dog?" He isn't shouting...but the quiet, even tone is somehow worse. I wince as I attempt to at least halfway sit up, but I settle for sprawling out wheezing on top of a few more crates.  
  
"Ed. I got Ein from Ed." Jet looks skyward, as if to say, 'No shit, sherlock.' "I mean, she gave him to me so I could bring him here to you! I swear, that was all!"  
  
"Just a delivery boy, then? Alright...I might've overstepped a bit, then. Sorry. Here, I'll get you something to drink..." He turns towards the main room again, but I stop him before he can start walking.  
  
"No...probably just about what I deserve. I am a reporter, after all." I see his fists tighten.  
  
"I knew it! Always you goddamn punks gotta follow me around! Why can't you bastards just let me be! I don't want fame, I don't want attention, I don't want to talk about Spike, and I don't want money! I just want to be left alone!" He almost looks like he's going to start hitting things again...but instead, he takes a deep breath, and just stands in the doorway, back turned on me.  
  
Finally, after what seems like a very long time...he speaks up again. I don't know how long it is...it's hard to pay attention to exact passage of time when it feels like you hit every branch on the way down off the Reality Tree. I hurt everywhere. This is not what I'd pictured it would be like when I imagined finally talking with Jet Black.  
  
"Do you know what you people have cost me, by constantly tracking me down and telling everyone in the system where I am?" He rubs his real arm absently. "Every woolong I ever got from the bounty business, I've put into staying out of sight. I spent the last of my savings to get the lease on this joint. I even kind of liked it here. Now I gotta pull up stakes again. You guys are like vultures. No, worse...you're like parasites...trying to suck me dry when I'm still alive."  
  
I moan a little. My leg really hurts...I think it's broken. "Hey, man, I'm in no position to argue. I've been tracking down you guys for months, and I don't have anything to show for it except a pathological fear of the Earth and a half-chewed hat." I wince a bit. "And maybe whatever might be broken here. Anyone who'd put themselves through that sort of misery for the sake of a five page article in a magazine for hunter-wannabes...well, I think there's obviously something wrong with me, if not the entire journalistic profession." With a pathetic show of wimpy academic dexterity, I manage to contort myself into almost sitting upright. Yeah, the leg is definitely broken, but I think I'll live, if Jet doesn't kill me before I leave here. I look up at the man, wondering what he's going to do next.  
  
There's an obvious conflict of instincts playing out behind his eyes. He almost looks like he wants to help me up, but then, I know he's never stuck around more than a day after getting discovered. Faye always painted him as the big mender-and-fixer on the ship, so I can wonder if that impulse is a factor here. Part of me feels guilty...there's so much I know about the man that I can't help but like him, even after he's beat the living crap out of me; but to Jet, I'm just some news whore who exposed him after trying to get on his good side by bringing his dog back.  
  
Finally, he grits his teeth, rolls his eyes and shakes his head; and, against his better judgement, pulls a first aid kit from off a shelf. "I really should be getting out of here," he mutters, as he feels against my injured leg, testing where the fracture is. "It's only a matter of time before the mob forgets, and starts feeling lucky again. This will probably hurt a bit." He swiftly jams my leg back into alignment where it was broken. I yelp like I'm Ein or something. Jet continues on without so much as a 'sorry.' "Hell, this time I shot one of them. Not that I'm broken up over it or anything...but it's going to make things difficult if he calls the cops. I might have a favor or two left to call in, though." He looks around for something to make a splint out of.  
  
"I wouldn't worry. Panza'll probably write it into his next travelogue. 'Touring the Northwestern Islands: Booze, Broads, and Bullets from Bounty Boys.' Be a badge of courage for him that he bled for that kind of tripe. He won't call the cops." Jet is standing again, eyeing various objects around the room.  
  
"Jesus...does the guy really write garbage like that?"  
  
"He gets a king's ransom for doing it, too."  
  
He shakes his head as he spies a ladder off to the side. "I got in the wrong business." Taking hold of one side, and standing on top of the other, he pulls the ladder apart with a horrible sound of splintering wood. He knocks off a few stray rungs from one of the sides, then breaks it in half. "This is going to have to do until you can get to a hospital." Dropping the splint by my side, he keeps looking for something else, and finds it: a roll of duct tape. "This isn't going to be a very dignified cast."  
  
I just smile. "Well, there aren't too many guys out there who can say Jet Black played field medic to their scars in the service of journalism. That's cool enough. If I've learned anything from all this, it's that I have no dignity anyway." He's wrapping the duct tape tight across the splint and my leg. I think this officially ruins this pair of pants.  
  
Jet manhandles the other end of the shattered ladder, leaving a couple rungs near one end. "I think this is the best crutch you're gonna get, kid. I take it gratefully. It's not very stylish, and it takes some getting used to, but I think I will be able to hobble around with it. "It was Kurt, right?" I nod. "Then, Kurt, I think it's time I head off again. Thanks for bringing Ein here." As if he can understand when his name is mentioned, Ein scampers up to where Jet is. He scoops up the little dog, and scratches him behind the ear.  
  
Without warning, he genuflects on the floor, pulling open a trap door. Suddenly, I remember that I wasn't just supposed to deliver Ein. There was a message, too.  
  
"Jet, Faye says she's sorry." The big man looks up.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Whatever it is she did, she told me, she's sorry for it, and she wanted to make sure you know."  
  
He has one of those looks again...where he's in a mental boxing match over two sets of contradictory instincts. He obviously wants to get moving...who knows when the press will show up again...but then again...I don't think he expected to hear from Faye. Finally, he hangs his head, resigned.  
  
"I guess I'm not getting rid of you yet, am I Kurt?" He gets up again.  
  
"Have you ever wanted to see the inside of the Bebop?"  
  
Holy crap! The Bebop?!? 


	5. Tangled Up In Black

Part Four: Tangled Up in Black  
  
Jet looks out of the window of the deserted Running Rock cantina. All over the outside docks, there is a flock of men in long coats and fedoras with press passes tucked in them, standing wherever there's room to get a view at the entrance. They look back at him with a stare that has something of the essence of Hitchcock's silent crows at the end of 'The Birds.'  
  
"At least it's stopped raining. God damn reporters," he mutters. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails. He slaps his forehead. "Is the ISSP getting involved now, too?"  
  
Perched on an empty table, using my ramshackle crutch to scratch my back, I just shrug my shoulders. "Got a radio handy? Maybe a police scanner?" He walks back behind the bar, pulling up an retro-styled audio receiver. Turning it on, he sets it to the local news station. An announcer's crisp voice crackles over the static.  
  
"...repeat the breaking news... Jet Black, one of the famed crewmembers of the Cowboy Bebop, has been found. Following an altercation at a local café with the press, Black reputedly shot a reporter for the Weekly Ganymedian, and took another man hostage. An ISSP SWAT team is en route to negotiate a surrender." Jet gives me a look. It says to me 'you just HAD to come after me, didn't you kid?'  
  
"Hey, don't look at me, Mr. Black. You did kind of take me hostage..." He grimaces.  
  
"Yeah, well...you started it." He pours some water into a bowl and sets it down for Ein. "What happened, were you followed?"  
  
"That'd be my guess. Look, sir, it really wasn't my intention to have all this happen to you."  
  
"You mean you weren't trolling for a story?"  
  
"Well, no, of course I was...that sounds terrible, I know...but I really admire you, sir, and I wouldn't intentionally blow your cover if you didn't want it revealed." I rub my neck awkwardly. "Probably some typesetter back at my magazine heard I'd found Edward from one of the higher-ups, and leaked it to the others." Outside, the ISSP craft is landing.  
  
"And I thought bounty-hunters were cutthroat. Look, kid...if we don't figure out a way to defuse this situation, they're gonna start shooting tear gas in here."  
  
I stare long and hard out the window...then it hits me. "Mr. Black, I think I have a plan..."  
  
.......................  
  
Jet and I exited the cantina together, just before the ISSP guys got their equipment ready to gas us out. Jet holds Ein's lead in one hand, and the little dog skitters out in front of him. In the other hand, he holds the pistol he used to shoot Panza. Flashbulbs pop as the first photos of two Bebop mates together since 2071 are taken. As for me, I hobble out on my crutches, careful not to bang my foot on anything. The crutch barely works, but barely is good enough. Jet takes the gun and lays it on the ground slowly. He seems irritated by the theatrical way this is going down. I know, of course, that the reporters will be better satiated with a dramatic finish than going out with a whimper, so when I step forward to speak, I lay it on extra-thick.  
  
"My friends and colleagues of the press! Mr. Black and I have reached an arrangement. In return for waiving kidnaping charges against his person, Mr. Black has agreed to an exclusive interview with Beat Magazine! Mr. Black asks that the press please respect his wishes in this matter, however, he hastens to add that, if pressed on this matter, he cannot be held responsible for any actions he takes. Thank you for your presence here today, and good-bye." The SWAT team looks dumbfounded...was this a hostage situation or a press conference? As for the reporters, they are crestfallen, one and all, but no one moves to obstruct us as we hail a skiff to take us to the other side of town. I hear some of them muttering as we leave.  
  
"How did a rag like the Beat manage an exclusive? It's not fair."  
  
"Well, maybe we can dig up that Ed kid before they go to press with this..." I try to contain my laughter. If those guys want to try their luck on Earth, they can have it!  
  
The skiff, sort of a modern tech version of a Venetian gondola, takes us to the other end of town in a few moments. As I've said before, Ginsburrough isn't a very big place. We end up on a dock lined with warehouses and cannery plants. Everything revolves around fish in this town. Jet nods to an abandoned-looking warehouse a block or two down.  
  
"That's the one. C'mon, let's go." We make our slow way down the dock to Jet's building, Ein's age and my lameness impeding any kind of hasty progress. "Nice work with the reporters, by the way. How'd you figure that'd do the trick?"  
  
A few steps behind, I'm gasping for breath, trying to keep up. "Hey...if another guy has exclusive rights for the story...there isn't much you can do other than make a counter offer. None of those guys have their own kidnaping charges against you that they can offer to drop." I stop a minute to wheeze. "Panza might have some grounds to extort some coverage by dint of assault with a deadly weapon..." I continue, "but he's probably in the hospital under heavy sedation if I know anything about his pain threshold." I pause for a moment, but not to catch my breath. "Look, Mr. Black, as far as the exclusive goes...your official statement can be 'go to hell' for all I care. I'm really sorry about all this."  
  
Jet stops in front of the massive warehouse door, inspecting a lock. Turning a little towards me, he smiles a lopsided smile. "Well, let's see how things work out, first. We might be able to make a deal..." He's punching some numbers into a keypad. There's a rumble of machinery and a thick haze of dust getting stirred up as the huge door rolls away. Inside, gathering dust as well, is the Cowboy Bebop.  
  
I don't say anything. I mean, it's not much to look at, but then again, I don't think that Neal Cassady's house in San Francisco is remembered for being a beacon of style, either...it's the people that lived there that gave it such history. Likewise, Abbey Road (what's left of it, anyway) would just have been a run of the mill studio if the Beatles hadn't recorded there. You can't just brush off a legend for aesthetic reasons. So, despite the fact that the Bebop is a big, ugly, rundown ship, I'm speechless at the sight of it.  
  
Jet saunters down towards the side of the ship, pressing an exterior panel to reveal a hatchway. Ein, despite his age, dashes inside like an excited puppy, yipping manically. Jet looks back at me. "You coming in, or what, kid?" Then he disappears inside.  
  
Well, with such a warm invitation, who can refuse? I limp up to the door and walk into history.  
  
To my surprise, the place looks lived in from inside. Everything is immaculately cleaned and polished, the walls look scrubbed. It's not terribly decorative, but it's still livable. The thing I'm most struck by is how small it all is. There's enough room in the cabin for 4 people and a dog, true...but it looks like it would be pretty crowded at times, especially with someone like Ed around. Claustrophobic...almost like Faye's apartment was... Something clicks for me as I realize this, but I put it on the back burner for now.  
  
Jet's in the cockpit...I hear the sound of old machinery and computer systems coming to life. After a few minutes, he comes back out. "Gotta run some diagnostics before we can get this boat in the air. Be about 45 minutes. I'm gonna change out of this getup. No need to look like a Hell's Angel when everyone knows who I am now, anyway. Feel free to look around." He vanishes into a doorway, and I'm left on my own again.  
  
Staggering through the ship, I inspect every hatch I can open, except the one Jet is changing in. The first place I look in is a small bedroom, maybe a reconditioned storeroom from when this was a fishing boat. There's a decent-sized bed, a TV, and another one of those BETA players. I notice that, though the entire ship is spotless and pristine, this room is coated with a thick layer of dust. This must have been her quarters, I think to myself. I'm probably the first person to set foot in here in years. I don't linger long there, and move on to the next place that catches my eye, a bathroom that's been converted into a makeshift greenhouse for rows and rows of bonsai trees. Like everything else on this ship, they look well taken care of, and are meticulously trimmed. Jet must have a lot of time on his hands.  
  
Next is a hallway, a gravity turbine now inactive while on planet. From a portal here, I can see the interior hangar. The old Hammerhead is sitting here getting rusty, while two empty spaces flank it. I want to try and get in, but the door I assume leads to the hangar first opens into another storeroom. There's a bunch of old crates and random objects strewn about the dimly lit room, but nothing grabs my attention, until a glint of light reflects off of something. Rather than head for the next door and the hangar, I take a closer look, until I realize that there's a refrigerator in here. Curious to see if Jet keeps anything in here anymore, I reach to open it up.  
  
My hand has scarcely closed around the handle, when suddenly, something heavy and metallic slams down on the door, barring me from looking inside. "Boy, have you lost your mind?!?" Jet appears beside me, gasping for breath like he ran all the way here from the cabin. He's shaved the mustache off and trimmed the rest of the beard to a manageable level, and tied the long hair back. I don't really notice this until afterwards, however, because it's impossible to pay attention to anything other than the look of fear in his eyes. "I haven't opened that door in ten years! Who knows what the hell is inside it now?"  
  
It takes me a second to process this bizarre train of events. Then I remember. "Oh, right...you're talking about the lobster thing. Jeez...you never cleaned it out in all that time? Don't you learn anything?" Jet just folds his arms and looks down at me crossly.  
  
"Old habits die hard, kid. Especially mine." We look back at the fridge. "It's probably not that smart to leave it in here...better dump it when we get out to space." I tap at the door with my crutch. Exploratory probing. I wonder if there are any weapons on board, in case something gets out.  
  
"Yeah...you'd think you'd have remembered to do that years ago..." I stop in the middle of what could build into a rant if it goes unchecked and my eyes get wide. "Wait a second. *We* get out to space? You're not talking about you and Ein, are you?" An almost-smile passes over Jet's face, and he slouches a little abashedly.  
  
"I figure you could use a lift back to Mars. And hell, if we're gonna do this interview thing, at least out in space, the rest of the leeches won't be able to barge in again."  
  
"You're serious? You'll do the interview?"  
  
"Well...yeah, I guess. I was kind of hoping you might..." he abruptly stops. "Never mind. It's stupid."  
  
"You're maybe wondering if I heard anything from the other two?"  
  
Jet grits his teeth and rubs his bald head, sighing like a straight answer will kill him, before finishing, "Well...it might be good to hear how Ed's been doing. Maybe you can fill me in."  
  
Somehow I don't think Ed is really who's on his mind. I resist the urge to say something wry. Instead, I just grin and nod my head back towards the cabin. "A bit. Let's go sit down. To make it fair, you can interview me, too, Mr. Black." Now there's something that cannot be disputed as a smile on his face. He chuckles a bit and shakes his head, before stepping off towards the control room.  
  
"Let's take off, first. And, hey...call me Jet."  
  
..............  
  
Before too long, we're in orbit around Ganymede. Jet's in the galley, cooking up something. I'm to be favored with one of his meals. Because of the constant possibility of getting discovered, he'd taken to storing supplies on-ship, and sleeping in the infirmary, the only other room with a proper bed. The Running Rock, I come to realize, is nothing more than Jet's version of Faye's great foyer, a place to go when they pretend to have a life beyond their memories. But, I can't help sneaking one question about the bar into the questioning. From my place at the table in the cabin, I holler through the doorway over the sound of something sizzling.  
  
"So, I couldn't help but notice, that woman with the cat called you Jet, and not Charlie. Old friend of yours that you let in on the secret, or what?"  
  
Jet returns the shout from inside the other room. "Ever heard of Ural Terpsichore?"  
  
"Yeah. The old legendary hunter, died about 20 years back?"  
  
"That's right." Jet sticks his head out to answer. I pick up a whiff of bell peppers and beef. This is so cool. "That woman was Victoria Terpsichore, the man's widow." I imagine my expression must be something pretty comical, because Jet coughs to hide a chortle before turning on his heel and returning to the kitchen. I slam my head on the table in frustration. I could've talked to the widow of Ural Terpsichore...that would have been a hell of a story, too...but noooo... I realize my news whore proclivities are beginning to flare up, and I take a minute to regain my composure before continuing.  
  
"So, okay, you know Victoria Terpsichore...how? You knew her husband, or cross paths on a bounty or something?" Meanwhile, Ein has wandered out of the kitchen and is staring up at me. He seems to have calmed down since coming back to the Bebop, and in the spirit of truce, I scratch him behind the ears.  
  
"Nah. Never met the old man. I didn't even know VT until after that book of Faye's came out. I was lying low working as a guard for a factory on Io, and she was on that moon dropping off some freight. We wound up at the same bar by chance. Some TV show was running a feature about Spike that night, and when it came on, we both yelled at the guy behind the bar to change it. She must have recognized me from the photos of me that were seemingly everywhere back then, even with the huge poncho and bad toupee I was wearing at the time. Trouble with scars like these," he points his finger to his right eye, "They make it pretty hard to just blend in. 'You must've been his partner,' she said, and we started talking. Guess she'd crossed Spike's path during one of our bounty hunts." He pauses for a minute. "VT knows what it's like to hide out, not wanting to be known by who you used to be and who you used to be it with. She won't blow my cover for a little fame, because she doesn't want it herself; and she won't harass me about what it was like to be a bounty hunter on the Bebop, because she's already been through it with her husband." He stops again, there's the sound of some dishes clattering. "It's good to have at least one person you can count on like that." He comes out, holding two steaming trays. Bell peppers and beef, and two bottles of beer. "She makes a point to get out to the Running Rock whenever she's in the area...I don't know exactly what I'm going to do with that place when your story goes to print. Sell it, move on again, I guess." He cracks open his bottle and has a big gulp.  
  
"Why are you so resistant to people knowing who you really are, anyway?" I ask through a mouthful of food.  
  
"I said I wanted to be left alone, didn't I?" There's a look of exasperation in his eyes, but I press on anyways.  
  
"Yeah, but is that the whole reason? Why is it so important that you stay solitary?"  
  
He sighs. "Look...I did fine for five years on my own. I could still be Jet Black, private citizen, and nobody gave two craps about it. Then that damn book comes out, and anyone who read it has to ask me all about what happened, whether or not Faye told the truth, why I wasn't still doing it, and all sorts of other questions, when the last thing I wanna do is think about those times." He over at me. "Present company excluded," he mutters. "Provisionally, anyway.  
  
"What's even worse, though, are the dumb shavers who think that they've got what it takes to be the new Spike Spiegel. It took me all of six months after this idiot trend took off to finally give up being myself in public, and I had to do it because every Tom, Dick and Mary who finds out who I am starts following me around and declares himself my new partner! Christ, half the time I'm doing regular work, like security and bartending. I don't need a partner for that! And even if I did go back to bounty- hunting, which I don't see happening in the near future...the last thing I need is some goofy kid in a bad suit getting in the line of fire." He sets his bottle down with a slam.  
  
"Whoo." I whistle. "Maybe you oughta take a turn and ask me something now."  
  
He nods. "Might be a good idea. How is Ed doing?" It's obviously not the question he really wants an answer to, but I'm not going to push him into anything yet. I take a drink myself before answering.  
  
"Doing the map-making thing her father was into. She's older. Bit frantic, but I think she might have calmed down a little. She was calling herself Francoise Appledelhi when I found her. Take that for what you will."  
  
Jet rumbles. "You don't make it sound like the two of you hit it off."  
  
"You could say that. I was kind of hoping to get her to come out of this exile she's in...but she's bound and determined to carry on her father's work." I wave a hand, annoyed. "Kind of a letdown. I was half-expecting the kid I'd read about in the book....instead I get a moody woman with a fixation on a completely futile crusade."  
  
Jet's eyes close, and he nods sagely. "Sounds familiar." He sighs. "I don't know, kid. Maybe she's got it better than the rest of us. For Ed, the past ten years have been spent with her pop and his plan, crazy as it was. She hasn't had to dwell on the way things were back then...she's been able to move on and do something new. The past doesn't drag her down. I imagine that Faye, with all her fame and fortune centering around a year and a half spent on a ship with two bums and a lunatic, can't help but obsess over it. And me..." He lets it die as he says it. But he doesn't have to finish. It's obvious that running from his past for all these years has made it impossible to live with anything else. "Your turn."  
  
"What have you been doing for the past ten years? Where've you been? You mentioned security and bartending...anything else?"  
  
He polishes off the rest of his plate before answering. "Whatever it takes to pay the bills. The bottom had dropped out of bounty-hunting, and my heart wasn't in it, either. The first job I took when the money first started to run low was a gig as a cook on Iapetus. Some work camp harvesting timber from the woods there. I wasn't qualified or anything, but there wasn't anyone else who knew a skillet from a wok, so I did that for a spell. Wasn't really the same, though, more like slopping hogs than feeding people. Real impersonal.  
  
"I bounced around from place to place for awhile after that, just doing odd jobs and work-for-hire gigs. Nothing steady for several years. I was a bodyguard for a politician at a space station for about a year, then I took the guard gig on Io. That lasted long enough to keep me until I heard about the book, then it got impossible to be Jet Black in public. I was a merc for about five minutes on Deimos, but then word leaked out, and the crew wanted me to come up with tactics and plans, since they somehow got the idea that I was the brains on the Bebop. Which was just moronic...most of the time there wasn't a plan, just us doing whatever felt right at the time, and on the few times there was, everything inevitably went to hell before the plan could work." He shook his head, amazed. "I split that scene. Had a real nice job as a gardner for a guy on an asteroid colony...but then some reporter tracked me down and I had to drop it, too. This kept happening until the latest thing in Ginsburrough. Which was a shame, 'cause I actually liked bartending a lot. You hear a lot of people pouring their hearts out, and every once and awhile, you might even be able to give them some good advice. I always was pretty good at listening.  
  
"Guess that my plan is that, if I set the record straight, maybe I can go back to it, and be left in peace for once."  
  
I push my now-empty plate to the center of the table. It was good--but not great--food. The novelty made it worthwhile, though. "Isn't it your turn?"  
  
He opens his mouth to say something, then stops. "I...I'll give you a freebie. Maybe next time."  
  
Far be it for me to express displeasure with an interviewee, especially one of my heroes, but the man really needs to just bite the bullet. But I figure he'll ask when he's ready. "Okay...so, what did you think of 'Hard Luck Woman'? You did read it, right?"  
  
He shrugs. "Yeah. Didn't really want to, but how often do you get a book written about your life?"  
  
"In your case, I think the current tally is somewhere around 26 times, once "Jet Black: Soul of an Old Machine" comes out this fall." He winces. I don't blame him, it's a godawful title.  
  
"Jesus... Well, at the time, it was the first time this sort of thing happened. Couldn't help but take a look." Probably didn't hurt that you were wondering about the author, either, I don't add.  
  
"It was okay. I didn't care for the ending. I mean, it was true enough...but to let it end with Spike's last words, and a little 'Where are they now?' epilogue which basically focused on Faye; with a 'the current whereabouts of Radical Edward and Jet Black are unknown' tacked on at the end. Nothing worse than being a footnote in your own story," he grouses.  
  
"Yeah, I can see why that'd upset you."  
  
"Other than that, it was alright. She left some stuff out, like about Ed leaving-why it happened, I mean. It just has her come back and Ed is gone, some quickie little explanation. But that's not surprising, she wasn't around, and we never did get around to talking about the why of Ed taking off anyway." He shakes his head, eyes narrow.  
  
"Do you want a turn?" I ask. C'mon, you old coward...ask about her...  
  
"No. I'll live." Out of nowhere, he adds. "There was way too much focus on Spike for a book called 'Hard Luck *Woman*,' I think. Struck me as odd. If she wanted to just write about him, she should have called it 'Man of Constant Sorrow.'"  
  
Yeah...except that doesn't really sound like Spike, so much as someone else on the ship, I don't say. He continues. "I'm probably just bitter." I neither protest nor chuckle emptily along with him.  
  
"What's up with that, anyway?" He looks up at me. "Why should you be bitter about how much page time Spike got in Faye's book?"  
  
"Huh? What are you talking about, kid?" There's a nasty undertone to his voice. Something inside screams that I shouldn't be going this direction. But screw it. If he isn't going to get to the heart of the matter, I will.  
  
"Shouldn't you have said jealous, really?" I point at him, bottle in hand.  
  
"Watch it, Mendoza..." he cautions.  
  
"I mean, bitter's not quite what you're getting at here, is it?"  
  
He's standing now, furious and in my face. I almost expect him to punch me. Instead he just rages.  
  
"Why the hell should I be jealous of a dumb bastard who goes and throws everything good he had down the chute, just to go get himself sliced up over some bad blood!" I just stare up at him, resolute. A small part of me is particularly proud of this fact...last time Jet started hollering and I was fully conscious, I wound up curled into a ball in a corner, hoping the storm would blow over. The fact that I can at least match him look for look (if not shout for shout) is encouraging proof of my evolution past the 'journalistic pansy' stage. Maybe the company I've been keeping is rubbing off. But it's only a small part of me that notes this, the rest of which is too busy trying to negotiate some reason into Jet.  
  
"Well, look, pal. As far as throwing away everything good, just to get cut up over bad blood...you did that yourself. I don't know if you remember this part, but there was a lot about Udai Taxim in that 'damn book,' and it sure sounds like you were doing the same thing Spike did. What's really pissing you off, Jet? Because it sure as hell isn't Spike doing the same thing you would have done if you were in his shoes."  
  
"Shut the hell up, kid! You think you know me, because you read a few books, written by people I maybe had five words with, three of which being 'go fuck yourself?' Screw you, you damn leech!"  
  
"No, Jet. I think I know you because I read just one book, the one written by someone who was around you for every day of the most important year of your life. I know that you're a cranky guy with a bad arm and a worse temper...but you were also a good man, who just had a run of bad luck with the people you trusted. The 'soul of the ship' that's what Faye called you- "  
  
"Stop talking about her!"  
  
"-the soul of the ship, the glue that held it all together..." I am remarkably steady, like a lighthouse in a storm. "...but then at the end, all the glue in the universe couldn't keep it all from falling apart, and you couldn't take it anymore."  
  
"If you keep this up, partner, I swear I'll..."  
  
"Whatever, Jet. The reason you were jealous of Spike didn't have anything to do with the number of pages dedicated to him. You know what it is. You said he threw away everything good he had...well, the only things he had on the Bebop worth anything were your friendship..."  
  
I'm interrupted when his bionic fist hammers into the wall to the left of me. I flinch, but I don't stop. "Goddamn, you..." he roars.  
  
"...and her love," I finish.  
  
"You could've thrown your life away too, easy. It didn't matter about what they thought about you, because Spike understood, and Faye...well, you already knew it wasn't you that Faye was in love with."  
  
Jet's back is turned. He's deadly silent.  
  
"But when Spike went and faced Vicious, knowing how she felt, and left her alone anyway...that's what you can't forgive, isn't it? Because if things were different, and it was you who Faye loved...you'd never have gone off to meet Taxim. Because she was too important to you to leave by herself." Jet says nothing. "Now look at yourself...you're so fixated on running from your past, that you can't even live in the present, let alone the future. You're as bad as Spike was."  
  
He still hasn't spoke. "You know I'm right, Jet."  
  
Jet turns. His eyes are the saddest things I'll ever see. "So what if you are?" His voice is choked. Man like that doesn't cry... but if he could... "Like you said, she didn't love me. And no matter what I did to take care of her, anything I tried to do to make her happy, nothing changes that fact." He swallows, looking like a mask, some kind of caricature of grief and rage, and slams his fist into the table, putting a deep crack into it. "No sooner did I fix her ship up, than she up and flew away."  
  
"Oh, for Christ's sake!" He looks up, confusion creeping in on the edges of pain and anger. "Jet...my god, you stupid, crazy, wonderful people...she thought you threw her out!"  
  
"What?" Confusion gone. Pain gone. Anger...yeah, anger gone, too. Shock is the new primary inhabitant of Jet's face.  
  
"You fixed her ship. She told me that the only thing you told her after Spike died, was that you'd repaired the Redtail. She thought you were trying to get rid of her, and she took the hint. Jesus Christ...you fucked- up people!" I laugh out loud. "I swear I love all of you, but, God in Heaven, do you have communication issues!"  
  
Jet remains silent. In fact, he sits there, like he's processing, for a few long minutes, while I just shake my head, astounded. I try a few remarks to try and get him to open up again, but I don't think he's heard a word I said since I told him her story. Finally he stands up. "I think I need something else to drink." 


	6. Ganymede Eulogy

Part Five: Ganymede Eulogy  
  
Three bottles of liquors of varying degree of sinfulness later, we're both deep in our cups. The interview has resumed, as Jet gets to telling me a number of stories from the Bebop I'd never heard about. It's fun, but ultimately unimportant, until our last real talk late that night.  
  
We'd been talking about Spike's fight with Tongpu. It's no good to hear from someone other than Faye about that guy...it goes a long way towards reaffirming my fear that the invincible serial-killing lunatic actually existed, rather than being the product of a fanciful imagination. We discuss Spike's incredible ability to take punishment, and inevitably, the question comes up.  
  
"Jet...you must've heard the rumors." I mutter, much less coherently than I like to admit. "What about you, what's your opinion? Is Spike Spiegel really dead?"  
  
Jet is a much sturdier drinker than I am. The question might be eased a bit by the booze, but his answer comes out as intelligible as anything I ever hear him say.  
  
"Yeah, I've heard talk." He idly tosses something to Ein, and the little dog devours it. "I don't know. What did the others say? You asked them, right?"  
  
"Ed is convinced she would have heard something. Faye thinks he would have tried to reach one of you." Jet raises an eyebrow at this. "They both think he's dead, man."  
  
"How about you?"  
  
"It doesn't matter what I think. I'm just another wannabe hunter, chasing down a ghost."  
  
"Yeah, that's true enough." He pauses, long and quiet. "But then, I've seen that ghost."  
  
I take this revelation remarkably well, considering it runs counter to every bit of conventional wisdom on the subject I've heard. "Really." I chalk my restraint up to the effects of alcoholic torpor.  
  
"Lemme tell you the story. You can come to your own conclusions."  
  
"It was a few years back. After the book came out. I had rented a room on Mars. I don't like going there if I can help it...but I had to repair the Bebop, and the only mechanics I use had relocated there from Earth. They knew Spike, too, so I could trust them to keep quiet.  
  
"So, I had to stay somewhere off-ship for a night, while Doohan and Miles fixed it up. I got a room, and had a few drinks before heading off to bed. I'd been thinking a lot about him since coming back to Mars...moreso than usual...so it's possible I just had Spike on the brain...but I don't think it's that simple. This is the part where it gets hazy.  
  
"Middle of the night, I woke up. Heard someone say my name. I look up over the foot of my bed, and there he is.  
  
"'Hey, Jet,' he said, lighting a cigarette. 'Or should I call you Parker Blank?' That was what I was using as my alias at the time.  
  
"'Jet's good. Been awhile since I heard anyone call me that and I didn't want to punch them in the face.'  
  
"'Then Jet it is.' He sat down on a chair opposite the bed. A few new scars, but otherwise, he looked the same, right down to the cheap blue suit. 'How've you been?'  
  
"'I've been getting by. You?'  
  
"'The same. You haven't heard from Faye or Ed lately, have you.' It wasn't a question.  
  
"'No. Haven't seen any of them since around the time I saw you last.'  
  
"'That's a shame, Jet.' He took a long drag off a cigarette. I figured that this was either a dream, a hallucination, or I'd died in my sleep, so I felt that either way, there was no harm in smoking in bed under those circumstances. I lit up and joined him. 'These things will kill you someday.'  
  
"That's what we always figured would get you in the end. Doesn't seem like anything else would've killed you. How many times did we have to bail you out?'  
  
"'Seems like a million and one,' he said, and he laughed.  
  
"'Except the last time. What happened, with Vicious?'  
  
"'I died again. That's two so far.'  
  
"'Oh. I'm sorry.'  
  
"'Doesn't matter. I'm here now. Look, Jet...' he stopped, and tapped out some ash, "...this isn't easy...we never were any good at telling each other what to do in a given situation.'  
  
"'You're telling me. We were worse at *letting* each other tell us what to do.'  
  
"He looked up at me with a grin. 'Not as bad as letting Faye call the shots, though.' We both busted up at that.  
  
"'So, anyway...Jet...I figured we should talk, because there's something I need you to do.'  
  
"'Name it, Spike.'  
  
"'Forgive me.' I try and protest, but he just holds up a hand. There's a serenity there that wasn't part of the Spike I knew. 'You know why, Jet Black. I know this has been eating you up inside. But you can't keep carrying that weight forever. Eventually, it'll be too heavy for you to drag around any more, and it'll crush you in the end.' He turned around, looked in my closet. 'At least, too much for you to support alone.'  
  
"'Spike...it's my weight to carry.' I said. 'I can live with it. And if it helps...I can't forget what you did, in leaving us...but I'll do my best to forgive it.'  
  
"'That's fine, Jet. That's fine.' There's one more thing, though.' He took something off a hangar and tossed it over his shoulder. 'You're gonna have to forgive her, too.'  
  
"'Spike,' I said, 'that's one thing I can't do.'  
  
"'You will. Trust me.' He held up the thing he took out of the closet. 'Can I take this?' It was my old ISSP jumpsuit, the one with the phoenix crest on the back. 'It seems kind of appropriate for the next part of the plan.'  
  
"'Which is?' I asked.  
  
"'Time for me to start all over again. Time to be someone else. Try to see if I can get it right the third time around. I won't see you again after tonight, Jet.'  
  
"'I kind of figured that's how this was gonna be. We're gonna miss you, kid.'  
  
"'Yeah, but it's already been a long time, partner. Real long time.' He walked over to the door.  
  
"'Yeah. Long time. This a dream, kid?'  
  
"'Jet...that's all life is.' He laughed, and it was the kind of pure laughter I had only heard once, just before the last time he left.  
  
"'You take care of yourself. And remember what I said.' Spike opened the door, stepped out, and left for good." Jet finished the story with a final swig of some old Martian whisky. "Next day, I couldn't remember if it was real or a dream, and figured that wasn't the point anyway. The ISSP suit was gone, but I couldn't recall if I had packed it in the first place...though I never did find it again after that night."  
  
"Wow." My wit is as stunted by alcohol as my excitability is. "So...how do you think he's doing now?"  
  
"I think he's happy, wherever he is, and that's the best we can hope for Spike Spiegel."  
  
"That's good." I ponder the ice slowly melting in what's left of the latest in a long line of rum and cokes. "Do you forgive him now?"  
  
"Yeah...I think I do."  
  
"How about Faye?"  
  
He gives me a sheepish smile. Probably safe to take it as a yes. "Think you've got enough to go on for a story now?"  
  
"Yeah. Think this'll do the trick." I hold up the recorder.  
  
"Good. Well, I think I'm gonna turn in." He stretches and yawns. "You can have the infirmary bed. I'll sleep on the couch. I'll set the navcomputer to take us to Mars. We can drop you off tomorrow."  
  
"Sounds good. Sweet dreams, Mr. Black."  
  
"Count on it, kid."  
  
......  
  
I don't dream of anything that night. I'm too drunk, crippled and exhausted to dream coherently anyway. I wake up to a four-alarm hangover and the sound of something scratching at my door.  
  
"What the hell? I open it up. I don't see anyone at first, but when I look down, there's Ein, staring expectantly up at me. "What do you want, pooch? It's early, my brain is screaming at me, and there's nowhere to take you for a walk in the upper Martian stratosphere. So where's the fire?"  
  
In response, Ein starts tugging at my pants legs with his teeth. Trying to get me to move into the cabin, I think. "There'd better be a fire in there, Ein." He scampers off, and I lumber after him into the hall. To my surprise, he dashes into the control room instead of the cabin, where Jet is sleeping soundly, sawing logs. I hold my head in my hand as I follow. "I hope we're crashing. It'd make the headaches stop if we do," I mutter. I'm not really a morning person.  
  
Ein is now sitting in front of the control room's comm. A little red light flashes, someone's trying to call Jet...probably space traffic control. I see a red landscape in front of me...we must have arrived...then it hits me through the haze of hangover. That's not Mars in front of us...  
  
I don't have the slightest idea how we got to Venus instead, so I hope the person waiting on the comm has an answer for me. Fortunately, she does.  
  
"Reporter-Man!" It's Ed-Thing. 7 in the morning, Ganymedian time, is too early for deviant grammar. I grit my teeth.  
  
"Hi Francoise. We're on Venus. Do you know how we got to Venus, because I'm all out of guesses. Hey...you don't seem surprised to see me on the Bebop."  
  
"I told you there was no one better connected than Radical Francoise! I intercepted a preliminary wire heading out to one of the Mars tabloids. It said you and Jet went into a hangar together, and that a ship resemembling the Bebop went into orbit shortly following. I can put two and two together."  
  
"Sure you can. So, genius hacker...how'd we get here?"  
  
"Don't you remember how Edward took control of the Bebop back when she joined? That isn't a trick you phase out of your act."  
  
"Okay, but you can do that when we're as far off as Ganymede?"  
  
"Yeah. So?" The insane distances, the sheer logistics of such an undertaking, do nothing to phase her. "Your point is?"  
  
"You terrify me." From offscreen, I hear McIntyre shout 'Me too!' "Tell Mc-Person 'hi' for me."  
  
I wonder if Jet has any coffee around here...  
  
"Sooooo...how did it goooo last night, Kurtzman?"  
  
"Why do I get the feeling you already know?"  
  
"Well....I do. But I wanted to hear it from you." She flashes one of those impossible grins.  
  
"I think your best grief-counselors would call it a breakthrough. As for me, I'm just a reporter...for a little while longer anyway. I wouldn't know what to call it."  
  
"Kurtzman is planning something. I can tell."  
  
"I'll give you the exclusive when I figure it out myself."  
  
Meanwhile, Jet has awoken to the subdued commotion. Ein, the most intelligent one here, if the unspoken goal was not to wake Jet up, hasn't uttered so much as a yip until now. Spotting his master, he bursts out into a staccato blast of hyperactive friendly barks.  
  
"What's going on here?" Jet stares out into the sky. Lucky bastard shows no sign of hangover. "Hey...that's not Mars out there..."  
  
"Jet!"  
  
"Ed? Is that you?"  
  
"Francoise. I'm sorry I couldn't come off planet, but mapmaking knows no breaks. So I had Kurtzman take Ein to you!"  
  
"Thank you, Ed." He points to the windows. "You do this, too?"  
  
This sets off an excited stream of technobabble that Ed must not have felt I would understand if she told me. And, since I don't understand, I just hobble out to the cabin, leaving these three old friends to get reacquainted.  
  
Not that anyone is surprised by this revelation, but our final destination is the tall tower where I first kicked off this quest. As we descend, I see a small figure wearing a yellow dress out on the roof. Ed must have called ahead.  
  
As the hatch opens, Jet nearly turns on his heel and heads back inside. I bar the way with my crutch, and Ein gives his best effort to growl threateningly.  
  
"I can't do this." He looks towards the portal, and I swear there's a bead of sweat forming on his brow.  
  
"Sure you can, old man. You two spent ten years apart because of a stupid misunderstanding. Why do you want to delay things any longer over nerves?"  
  
"Well...I don't think this'll be comfortable for either of us. I know how she felt about Spike, and you know how I feel about her. What makes you think this'll work out?"  
  
"Nothing I can empirically prove." I sling the cane over my shoulder. "But, it's been ten years. Maybe you're coming out of this better than you realize."  
  
He gives me a skeptical look. "What do you mean."  
  
"Well, she told me once that it'd be like kissing her father, if anything had happened between you two back then, if she would have stayed on the Bebop. It wasn't the kind of ground you could build a relationship on."  
  
He groaned. "You think this will make me feel better? Want to stick a knife in my gut while you're at it?"  
  
"Will you just listen? I thought you used to be good at that." I sigh. "Christ. My point is, Jet...she can take care of herself now. You haven't been her 'dad' for ten years now. What she needs now is a friend." We share a smile. "Yeah, I think you can handle doing that. Besides...down the road, who knows what might work out?" I casually scratch my back with the crutch. "Anyway, at this point, I think it's safer to keep the stable ex-Beboper around the one more likely to shoot reporters. Maybe you'll cancel each other out, and you two might actually be able to live normal lives again."  
  
He nods. "That sounds pretty good." Again, though, he hesitates. "But...what about the Spike thing?"  
  
"Jesus, Romeo! Look, Jet...I know you're just stalling now. But...if it helps...she isn't in love with Spike anymore. She isn't sure she ever was, now. I know for certain that she never called it that when we spoke. And there is one thing I'm sure of. She definitely misses you." I hit him with the cane. "Now, will you get out there? You were always the gentleman of the ship...now you're keeping the lady waiting."  
  
"Alright, alright." He takes a deep breath. "Wish me luck." With that, he steps out of the Bebop, and back into the real world. Ein runs after him, scampering about like he's half his age. As for me, I just hobble slowly down the ramp, and off towards a stairway entrance on the other side of the roof. I take a moment though, to watch. Faye is still standing a few meters back from the ship. She hasn't said anything since Jet has come out. Ein waits by the hatch, remarkably patient. Jet takes a few hesitant steps forward. Both of them look about two degrees from breaking down.  
  
The silence is deafening, but his deep voice finally rumbles out across the scene, "Hello, Faye."  
  
"Welcome back, Jet. I...I'm glad to see you again." There's another long pause. Come on, people, I try and command them mentally, just say it!  
  
Finally, it breaks, and they both say it at once. "I'm sorry." Then there's another silence, this one shocked, as each tries to decipher what the other has to apologize for.  
  
"Faye...you don't have anything to apologize to me for anything." He takes a few steps closer, and she, for her part, walks forward like she's pleading.  
  
"No, Jet...whatever I did, to make you want me gone...I'm so sorry for it."  
  
"You didn't do anything. It was all a mistake." The big man looks ready to weep. Faye already has. She wipes her eyes, trying to do it before anyone notices the tear that threatens to fall. As if anyone here would care. Faye stammers out a response, her voice cracking.  
  
"Then...what is it you have to be sorry for, Jet?"  
  
"For waiting so long..." He almost stops, but he's already too far gone. "..to tell you that I missed you."  
  
"Oh, Jet...I missed you, too." They close the final gap between them, and embrace.  
  
Ein dashes out and starts up with the yips again, wagging his tail furiously and staring up at his friends. Faye looks down, startled, and says something with a tone of surprise. I don't hear it clearly, and it doesn't matter to me. I've heard enough. This really isn't my story, anyway. I stumble towards the door, when something buzzes in my pocket. The comm I got before I went to Ganymede.  
  
"Mendoza."  
  
"Kurt." It's Ed. I think it's official, if three members of the Bebop are back together and Ed's using my unmodified proper name...that it means we're about one last sign away before the end of the universe. "How did it work out, Kurtzman?" That's more like it. For a second, I was worried.  
  
"All's well, Miss Appledelhi." I look over to the trio on the other end of the roof. They're laughing and heading towards the other door. I can't help but smile myself. "Everything's perfect."  
  
She's beaming, too. "Everything worked out, then."  
  
"Yeah. I think they might finally stand half a shot at being happy." I smirk into the comm. "Wouldn't hurt to stack the deck with a visit from the last piece of the puzzle, though."  
  
She laughs. "Don't rush things, Reporter-Man. I think they need a little time by themselves before they have what it takes to deal with me again." Ed grins slyly. "But who knows? Anything's possible."  
  
"Even with your promise to your father?"  
  
"Promises are good, and promises are fine, Kurt; but I have other family to think of, too."  
  
"Well, I'll keep listening for the sound of the end of the universe, then. When you come back to civilization, that has to be the last sign..."  
  
"Bring it on. Whatever happens, happens..."  
  
"You're telling me. You take care of yourself, Francoise."  
  
"You too, Tank Boy. And for your information," she winks, "you can call me Ed now. Bye-bye!"  
  
"Bye-bye," I say, as the comm fades to black. I wonder what I'm going to do now that it's over. I can't go back to a desk job after all this. It's time to start again, time to be someone else. I put the comm back in my pocket, and begin the long walk home.  
  
Wherever that turns out to be.  
  
  
  
KEEP ON KEEPING ON  
  
  
  
-Grateful thanks to Blues Traveler and Bob Dylan for title inspirations and occasional pilfered lyrics hidden amid the text. Thanks to the sick minds who made "Eddie and the Cruisers, a really quite awful flick which nonetheless gave me the idea to have a reporter track down the Bebop crew ten years later and to keep the possibility of a living Spike suitably nebulous. A bow of indebtedness to Christopher Priest for doing Black Panther, who's sarcastic coward narrator Everett K. Ross was the inspiration for Kurt Mendoza's personality. Mad props to Shinichiro Watanabe and the Sunrise crew for coming up with such incredible source material. I just hope my story has an iota of the quality Bebop had, if maybe just a little more definite resolution for its other main characters.  
  
Also, thanks to everyone who's sat through this cumbersome pile of words. Let me know what you think, please. 


End file.
